Nobody
by themuller
Summary: Traumatised, Q needs a bond to survive. - Omega verse! -


Not mine.

Not beta'ed.

Not brit-picked.

Written as a gift for marylouleach - sorry for being late to the party!

And as a thank you to the 00Q - James Bond/Q addicted group. Thanks guys, for letting me participate (and sorry for not doing much so far).

 **XoXoXoXo**

From the moment, he had presented, Q had tried to outrun the inevitable. He let his head fall against the cold window. The only window in his small room. And it was facing a brick wall. Ironic. Oh, but the sun was shining brightly on the wall, throwing a nice warm glow back into the room. Mocking him, even now.

Trapped. Inside this room, inside his body's biological necessities.

He heard firm footsteps coming up the small staircase. Not Sherlock's, who had left him a few minutes ago. Nor John's either. He was probably still fighting it out with Mr Holmes in the living room. 'An asset,' as Holmes had put it, bluntly. 'A human being!' John had countered. Q shook his head. Human beings had choices, freedom, dignity. None of that did apply to Q any longer. Had it ever?

The footsteps had stopped in front of the closed door to his room. Q shuddered, did not turn around. Trying to stop, to delay the inevitable. Just for a few more moments. His body was feverish already. The clothes clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He felt gross, like Sherlock had predicted. His own perceptions would not matter. Not any longer. For the person, for the human being outside his room, Q would be the most delicious little creature, a dream come true.

There was a hesitation at the door. A soft knock. As if he still had a choice, as if what he wanted still mattered. He did not respond. The door was opened. Q could smell the man. Nervous, like him, but not anxious. Reassuring. Q looked at his hands clutching the windowsill. Not his fingers, not his body. Somebody else's. This. This was not happening. Not really. Let him wake up, please. His breathing became fast, shallow. Sounds inside his head. Deafening. The light too bright. And then. Nothing.

"Goddamn it, Sherlock! How old is the boy?"

An unknown voice. The strong scent of an Alpha.

"You're kidding. He still got spots, for God's sake! Let me speak to John."

A boy? Where? Who? Q tried to concentrate. Focus. He could feel the duvet under his hands. His clothes were clinging to him. He was lying on the bed. In his room. With an unknown Alpha. Confused, Q tried to sit up. The Alpha was standing beside him. Watching him closely while listening to the voice on the mobile.

"John? There is no way, I'm -"

The Alpha frowned. Then nodded gravely. Q still tried to make sense of what was happening. There were only the two of them in the room.

"You could have told me, for fuck's sake."

The Alpha ended the call, turned off the phone, and threw it carelessly on top of the drawer. Q could smell the apprehension, while his befuddled mind continued to wonder where the boy was hiding.

"Well. Q," the Alpha said, slowly turning towards Q, who looked up at the man, almost looming over him. "Bond," the man said.

"Eh?" Q replied, confusion written all over his face. Why point out the obvious?

Now the man was looking bemused.

"Bond, James Bond. That's my name," he clarified in a patient, overbearing tone.

Q's eyes widened. He'd got to be dreaming. This was definitely not happening to him.

"Pfh," was his answer. He had no idea what he was trying to convey. Q had pushed himself up into a sitting position and tried to put some distance between him and the man.

"John told me, you didn't want to know anything about the Alpha, who was going to," Bond hesitated, then opted for waving a hand between them. His breathing had become laboriously. He, too, was sweating now.

"Claim me," Q finished, brutally. Fisting his hands, wanting to concentrate, to talk, to, to, anything. Not letting the biological necessities overtake his mind. John had explained. Holmes had, too. As had Sherlock. Q knew they were right. This was his only chance of survival.

He just wanted the choice. Wanted the possibility for opting out of all of this.

Why him? Hadn't he done enough, when he had brought down that organisation? When they had found him, taken him to one of their facilities, even before MI6 had made their first move? Tortured him? Why?

Gently, arms were wrapped around him, soothing noises, softly spoken. And Q let go. The emptiness, pain, fear inside of him overwhelming. He clung to Bond like a man drowning. Crying, while his body shifted into the next phase, turning him into a sex maniac, lust becoming the sole motivation for his being.

Liberating.

Terrifying.

The actual events a blur of clothes being torn, skin on skin, humping, fingers trailing down his burning body. The all-encompassing need to become one with the other man overtaking any inhibitions, chasing his own fulfilment. Wanting, craving the touch, the kiss, the intimacy with the other.

The savagery of the bite opening an abyss of primal urges. Becoming one entity, one mind, spiralling down and into each others memories, experiences, dreams, and needs. Breathing together, moving together. Together, together, like one being, enormously and tiny, a seed, a possibility.

The climax brought a new kind of clarity and peace. The other being a part of him, him being a part of the other.

Q slept. Spent. Exhausted. At peace.

When he woke, Bond was there. The bond. Watching over him, over them. They were together, physically attached. Necessary. It was a cocoon, shielding Q from the rest of the world, from his own thoughts, his own experiences.

"We can do this," Bond said, smiling. An almost boyish smile, blue eyes glinting. A hint of wariness, even now.

Q didn't answer. Their spectres had been laid bare for them to examine and dissect, to share and conquer. Together. Together, they could do this.


End file.
